Mister Masen's Little Swan
by edwardian1901
Summary: (This is Bella's POV regarding what's happened thus far in "Mister Masen, Assistant Headmaster," which is a spank fic. This story features spanking as well, so please proceed with caution.) Bella Swan enrolls in a private girls school in Forks, Washington, and can't stop thinking about the young, handsome yet ill-tempered assistant headmaster.


This is a companion piece for my other work titled _Mister Masen, Assistant Headmaster._ If you discover holes in the plot here, it is because you will find those details in Edward's version of the events, but I don't actually think it's necessary to read both to know what's going on. Several of the _Mister Masen_ readers requested Bella's point-of-view, and thus I present _Mister Masen's Little Swan._ Thank you for reading!

* * *

_Holy crow, holy crow, holy crow, holy crow…_

Where is this and what is going on here? I've unknowingly stepped into some sort of diabolical experiment. It's like … supernatural. Had I known that the place of my birth was home to all these super-model-beautiful people, I would have never fallen off that last step of the airplane in Port Angeles into my father's awkward grip.

It's like hundreds of the best-looking and wealthiest high-schoolers in the country and around the world have come to gather in cloudy old Forks to be educated.

Seriously. What am I doing here?

Every eyebrow is perfectly waxed and arched, every knee sock hugs every perfect calf and wouldn't _think_ of slouching, and every perfectly hair-sprayed wisp of hair holds its place, despite the rain, mimicking runway-model hair up against an industrial-sized fan. There is even a girl gliding along the wet pavement in a belted trench, Grace-Kelly-fashion head scarf, and—get this—_high heels._

I think good looks must be part of the admissions criteria. No. Not mere good looks—_perfection_. How then did I make the cut? Somebody must owe Charlie a big favor. That, or this is all a trick.

I've already met the headmaster, Dr. Cullen—so pretty and well-spoken, he must be gay. And the secretary is breathtaking and cordial. Ugh, it looks to be the whole staff. Hotness is a job requirement.

I change my mind. I want to go to the public school. Sure, I'd feel like a freak there too, but at least there would be _someone_ more dorky than me. At least I think so.

I tell myself to walk, and somehow, my legs comply—not without slipping on the sidewalk slush, of course. I'm actually thankful for the rain today, because at least I can hide under my hood. I want to dart, Mission-Impossible style, from tree to tree, avoiding notice. However, I'm pretty much being ignored by all the females in matching tartan skirts. I look down and scowl at my own tailored version of the "school girl" costume. It's not even close to being Halloween. This is my reality now.

When I near the academic and administrative building, I'm again struck by its air, which mimics a high-end ski lodge, constructed with stone and timber and lots of glass, from which to view the soggy, green outdoors. Inside is more of the same. A professional yet artistic water feature, framed paintings (not prints) by local artists, and overstuffed, studded leather furniture. The floors of the hall are stone tile.

In the lobby of the office, the gorgeous secretary, wearing a gorgeous blue shirtdress and heels, hands me my schedule.

"Isabella Swan. Welcome!" Ms. Platt shakes my hand.

"It's Bella actually." I'm feeling so less than gorgeous and more like a drowned duck.

"Miss Swan, here is a list of your courses, a map of the campus, and your locker combination. Yours is number 13. But I know this is a lot to take in, so I've asked Miss Brandon to see you around."

That's when I notice a small, slim girl with a pixie haircut—which is styled into carefully pasted and yet somehow random flyaways—come prancing in the doorway. She is vibrating with some unseen energy, fists thrust gleefully under her chin. Now I realize I'd seen her outside on the way in—the girl in the trench and heels.

"I'm Alice," she gushes. The ivory scarf is now bundled stylishly around her neck.

"Bella," I correct, nodding and smiling shyly. It's hard not to like someone who acts like she adores you instantaneously.

Ms. Platt speaks up again. "You're going to love St. Anne's, Miss Swan. I know you will. Now, if you need anything at all, Miss Brandon can help you, or feel free to come see me here."

"Thank you." I don't think my gratitude sounds genuine, but it's because I'm feeling pretty overwhelmed. I overcompensate with an optimistic smile, which Ms. Platt returns.

Our first stop is my locker, where I leave my raincoat and wallet.

There are some minutes before my first class starts, and although Alice has escorted me to the classroom where I will be taking English this semester, she stands outside and talks (using her hands emphatically) about school. It actually turns out to be a rather helpful rundown about everything I will need to know, including how not to get busted for uniform violations, which toilet stalls to avoid, and when I can get away with skipping class. I'm sort of relieved to get the inside how-to, and it's nice to not have to make small talk, since Alice does all the talking for us. Although how I'm going to remember all of this, I don't know.

The morning proceeds as one would expect. In between classes, Alice meets me and we pick up where we left off. With each new hour, I gain possession of another heavy textbook, and so I find the need to stop by my locker again before World History begins. Alice is in this class, too, which is taught by a young Mr. Whitlock, who has a distinct Southern accent and swagger. Even though the man is giving a slid-show lecture at the front of the room, Alice continues to whisper to me. I try to be polite and look interested in what she's saying, while at the same time giving proper due to the cowboy offering us an overview of Italian Renaissance art. (How incongruous.) Mr. Whitlock reprimands her twice, in the nicest way I've ever seen a teacher call a student out for talking over them. She swears to straighten up and keep her lips glued. Although I think she truly means to keep her promise, having known Alice for most of four hours, I feel very skeptical about the reality of it happening.

Alice is again talking my ear off as we leave the classroom. She wants me to come see her suite after classes end today, but she unexpectedly stills, mouth open in an uncommon hush. I don't realize what's shocked her … until I follow her stare.

He's tall and the most handsome man I've ever seen. Auburn hair that's sophisticatedly disheveled on top, but not purposely so like Alice's. The skin, although pale (like everyone else's here) doesn't match the reddish tones in his hair. (In other words, no freckles.) His expression is sober, green eyes piercing, slight disappointment showing on his face. What I might imagine the angel of death looks like when he's caught you being so bad that you've got to be wiped off the face of the earth. So beautiful and so terrifying.

"Mr. Masen. Did you see me in there?" Alice asks.

"I'm afraid I did, Miss Brandon."

Holy crow. When he speaks it's soft and yet commanding. Musical and damning.

I look down. I can feel a blush coming up my neck. I wasn't expecting … _him!_

For some reason, I remember a saying my grandmother always used—"he looks like the devil before breakfast"—except that I revise, thinking that this mortal more resembles a destroying angel, as terrifying as a devil but so much more divine.

The angel speaks again. "It's all right. If Mr. Whitlock can overlook it this time, so can I."

With his sentence, the tension breaks.

I could kill myself for what happens next. But it's not like it's a surprise or anything that I can't stay standing on my own two feet. I think at this point you could have knocked me over with a feather. It feels as though the blood rushes from my head and I lose my balance. In the disturbance, I let go of my backpack and reach out just in time before my face hits the floor tiles. I guess the shock of the fall makes me come to, because I'm suddenly very clear-headed—unfortunately realizing that I've humiliated myself in front of this man … if he is indeed a man.

I feel his grip on my arms, just above the elbows. His hands are startlingly cold, as though the foul weather messes with his circulation, but very strong.

"Miss Swan?"

I must answer him in the affirmative, because he continues.

"I'm Mr. Masen, the assistant headmaster. I came to introduce myself."

_The angel of death has a name? And he's asking me to call him Mister Masen? Have I died yet, or is that coming?_

Alice distracts me, nudging my side with the backpack that I dropped.

"Uh … hi."

That is brilliant. I'll impress him with my vocabulary, then he's sure not to kill me.

The Mister Masen, Assistant Headmaster, is threatening to send me to the nurse. What must he think of me? I'm such a spaz.

"No, no. I'm fine," I assure. "I just tripped."

Alice giggles. "Over what?"

_Shut up, Tinkerbell. I'm handling this as best I can._

He looks like he doesn't believe me.

"Are you sure you aren't running a fever? You turned red suddenly and now you're white as a sheet. You don't feel faint—"

"No." I try to sound firm. Isn't he listening to me?! "Like I said, I'm fine."

I see a hidden smile amidst the serious set of his mouth. "Maybe you'll feel better after you've eaten."

"Yes, I'm sure that's what it is." _There is NOTHING wrong with me, Headmaster Masen, Assistant of Death, other than your convicting presence. I will feel much better after you've left me alone, thank you._

"Pleasure to meet you, Miss Swan."

I shake his icy hand.

My breath is coming rapidly. He says something about lunch, raising an eyebrow. He wants something from me, but I don't know what it is. Please, somebody script me a line! The way he's looking at me! I obviously don't measure up and this is a depressing realization.

"Bye, sir," Alice says, sounding absolutely delighted by the unexpected brush with death.

"Miss Brandon." There is a slight bow of the head and then he takes flight.

We walk behind him, but, despite his height, I eventually lose sight because we can't keep up with his stride and the hallway is now full of students rushing to leave for the lunch hour.

I feel like Lizzie Bennett after Mister Darcy has deemed her "tolerable."

Thank goodness Alice takes charge, guiding me to my locker and instructing me to put away my things and take out my hooded coat.

"That's our Mr. Masen," she says proudly. "He's pretty dreamy, isn't he? Until you get sent to the office with a yellow slip. Then he's your worst nightmare." She shudders.

The rain has let up some, but I hardly notice the walk across campus. In the dining hall, I'm defeated by all the choices available and settle on a soda. I don't feel well anyway.

Alice leads me to a table that includes some faces I recognize from my various morning classes. I smile and say hello when prompted, but my mind is elsewhere. The girls chatter, but when there is a pause in the conversation, I speak up.

"What's a yellow slip?" I ask.

A girl named Lauren speaks dryly. "It's a ticket to see the headmaster."

"The _assistant_ headmaster," Alice clarifies, taking in a spoonful of chocolate ice cream.

I turn my head to the left, where the other girls seem to be staring. I see Mr. Masen in profile, sitting at a table with Mr. Whitlock and another man, who is dressed in athletic clothing and looks like he spends all his spare time pumping up in the weight room. (This other man would be my gym teacher, I guess…. Grrrrreat.) The two teachers are laughing about something, but I can see on his face that Mr. Masen is brooding, a dangerous expression lurking there. There is still the angelic in his demeanor, but there is something rather more … predatory now. He reminds me of a lion reclining in the grass. We lesser beings remain safe until we hear his stomach growl. At the moment, he's looking rather hungry and ready for a sprint.

"She doesn't know," the ditzy girl with the curly hair says. Jessica, if I remember right. She's twirling hair around her pinky and smirking at me.

"Know what?" I question.

"Well, I guess we ought to tell her," a skinny girl says. I think her name is Angela. She won't even look at me when she speaks, she's so shy.

Alice sighs. "I'll tell her. A yellow slip means you're sent to the office to be punished."

"It's like getting sent to the woodshed," a girl next to me says.

Okay, I was not expecting this. I'm certain I'm blushing.

"I told you she didn't know," says Jessica with a smile.

"Like … spanking…?" I mumble.

"Yes," Alice answers matter-of-factly.

"With him?" I point.

They all nod. Lauren rolls her eyes.

I'm so embarrassed that I want to end this conversation right away … but I also really, _really_ don't want to end it. I'm kind of wrapped up in it now. I can't stop thinking about being sent to Mr. Masen's office with a yellow slip. "D—does it hurt?"

"Yes!" This comes from Alice.

"But it's worth it," Jessica interjects.

"No, it's not," another girls says.

"If you're not a traditional student," Angela says, "you might not have to worry about it." She passes me her lunch tray, from which she hasn't eaten, telling me that I can have it. I thank her, because she is sweet, but I don't really want to eat either, especially now.

Alice regards me. "You don't know if your parents signed the release, do you? If you didn't know about the yellow slips, then they must not have told you."

"No, I don't know…." I bite my lip. My mother most definitely would not have signed her permission for anything like that, unless she misunderstood the fine print. But it was Charlie who filled out my enrollment forms.

"Isn't that—I mean—at our age—and he touches you _there_, isn't it…" I feel my head cocking from one shoulder to the other.

"Kinky?" Jessica finishes for me. "Yeah it is. It's sexy as hell." I'm starting to understand that Jessica isn't as dumb as she seems. The problem is that the man in question approaches our table behind her back as she continues to explore this controversial subject, making bedroom eyes and deepening her voice. "Mr. Masen, I'm here for my spanking."

The rest of us can't speak, because he's appeared so unexpectedly, and so we are left to awkward gestures, feeling shame for her. All except for Lauren, who snorts. I can't help but wonder if Jessica's accidentally overheard comment is enough to earn her a trip to Mr. Masen's office.

Jessica sees our faces and realizes the awful truth. "He's standing behind me, isn't he?"

Alice nods.

Jessica is nervous, but I got to hand it to her—she knows how to cover. "Did you happen to hear that, sir?"

"I'm going to pretend that I didn't." He looks kind of embarrassed.

"Oh, okay," she giggles.

Without notice, like he's grateful for the diversion, the lion dashes to Lauren's side to take a bite out of _her_ flesh. "I'll take that, please," he says with even authority, holding out a hand for whatever it is he wants. The girl begrudgingly complies, pulling an iPod from her blazer pocket. "You can come get it from my office on Friday afternoon." Lauren looks alternately bored and annoyed.

Then it's my turn to face the carnivorous Mr. Masen.

"Miss Swan, I wanted to check on you. Feeling better?"

I briefly survey the other girls for support, but they are all looking away—throwing me to the lion, so to speak—except for Alice, that is. She smiles kindly.

"Yeah, I am."

"You didn't eat much," he notices, not realizing of course that this is Angela's food tray.

Is not eating something he would spank me for? Did Charlie sign that form? Did Mr. Masen _know_ if Charlie signed the form?

"I think my stomach is upset," I admit.

"What class do you have next?" he demands, his eyes narrowing.

"Biology." It comes out sounding like a question.

"Okay, I'll write you a note and you can go to the nurse."

"No!" This I say without hesitation. "I don't need to. I _want_ to go to Biology."

"Are you sure?"

What is it that he wants?! Me feeling well, or me being frightened to death? Unfortunately I'm leaning toward the latter.

"Yes. I'm feeling much better. Only a little queasy." I'd feel even better if he would go away. But I also don't want him to go….

"You girls take care of Isabella for me," he says, tapping the table twice with his fingers. With that, I can't look anywhere but at his hand. Is that the hand he uses to spank students?

"Yes, sir," Alice answers dutifully. Then she blabs on to me about high-heeled shoes or some other such nonsense, while he walks away from us. This is the last I will see of him today.

My uneasiness fades somewhat and I'm able to make it through my remaining classes. Including gym. (Argh!) Fortunately I don't have to participate because my uniform hasn't arrived yet, but it's painful enough to watch, knowing that my turn is coming. And also I'm learning that students at St. Anne's use _sir_ or _miss_ when addressing a teacher. This will take some getting used to.

In an effort to be friendly, I visit the suite that Alice shares with the skinny girl Angela, and we all three talk for a while. The dormitories are elegant, like the rest of the school—more like a hotel than a boarding school. I want to ask questions, since Alice obviously has first-hand experience, about the yellow-slip procedure, but I can't bring it up again without seeming too interested. _Does he scold you first? Do you bend over a desk, or over his knee? Does he lift your skirt? Are you hit with a hand or a paddle or ruler…?_ I keep these queries to myself as Angela and I listen to Alice chat. She wants badly to get her hands in my hair, but I feign obligations awaiting me at home.

I drive to my dad's house and rummage through the cupboards and refrigerator to pull a meal together for when said father figure will return from work. There's cereal, pasta, rice, hot dogs, and some cans of corn and chili. The freezer is full of papered packages—fish I assume. Not exactly dinner like I'm used to, but I grill the hot dogs on the stove and heat up the corn and chili. There are no rolls, but I try not to pout about it.

My mother calls to see how my first day of school went. I remain positive but vague. Mom wants a picture of me in my uniform, and I promise to email one.

When Charlie comes in and hangs up his gun, we sit down to dinner. After he asks how my first day was and I answer, "Fine," we stop talking to each other. I can't work up the nerve to ask him about the papers he might or might not have signed. But it's all I can think about. However, I think I'd rather die than bring it up. ("By the way, Daddy-o, did you know the assistant headmaster at St. Anne's Bellemount is into spanking students? Isn't that creepy?" Yeah … no.)

Charlie slinks to the living room and I climb the stairs to my room. There I lie down on my stomach and pretend that I'm lying across Mr. Masen's lap. I can't go as far as to imagine the pain, but I work myself up with presumed anticipation. (If Jake were here now, he would laugh at me.) I fall asleep like that, feeling foolish, and Mr. Masen is the feature attraction in my dreams—he's got a wooden ruler and a frown that hints at only a thousand potential emotions, while still remaining neutral.

If that's my nightmare, why do I wake up feeling so good? I tell myself that next time I see Mr. Masen, I will make him like me. I'll be personable and smiling, and he'll be charmed. I'll even call him sir, like the other girls do.

Note to self: Be more like Alice.

* * *

Can I tell you how weird it is to have to sit through a school assembly that your father is facilitating? It's very uncomfortable. To make things even weirder, a disheveled Mr. Masen rushes in, ten minutes late, appearing highly ill-tempered, and tries to quiet the riled-up auditorium. Jessica, who is sitting in the row in front of mine, uses two fingers to let out a shrill whistle, indicating, once again, her thoughts on Mr. Masen's sexual appeal. The look on the lion's face is one of dry amusement and menace. I think he might start randomly executing students until the real culprit comes forward or the rest of us give her up. Instead he gives a caution, introduces Charlie, and stalks off.

Seeing Charlie and Mr. Masen on the same stage together, however short the juxtaposition, is unnerving. I can't pay attention to the PowerPoint slides showing grisly car wrecks resulting from drunk-driving incidents, but instead wonder again if Charlie signed. And if he did, does he know that this young, moody headmaster can take out whatever is rankling him on my poor behind? Why wouldn't he have warned me?

"Isn't that your dad, Bella?" Lauren sneers, interrupting my thoughts.

I so want to be home-schooled.

The rest of the morning and early afternoon go better. But it's gym class, wouldn't you know it, in which the train wreck occurs.

After watching for a while the court activity from the bleachers, I decide to go get a drink from the water fountains. In true Bella-Swan form, I turn the corner and walk right into a full-fledged fist fight, not realizing what is going on until a spatter of blood from a girl's nose hits me across the face. With an involuntary cry of disgust, I run past and, shaking, hold myself up in front of a sink in the locker room. I'm only just able to wash the blood off my cheek and mouth before I have to go lie down. Stumbling to the benches I lay myself out and shut my eyes, trying to fend off the queasy stomach.

I don't know how long I lie there before I hear that empty-headed Jessica trying to rouse me. I cover my eyes and ignore her. But then, moments later, I hear that voice again.

"Miss Swan?"

What is that voice? I've heard it somewhere before? Oh, yes, the angel of death come to take me. That's fine. I'd rather be dead than feel this nauseous. But somebody is tugging on me and that's annoying. Serves whoever it is right if I vomit on them.

"Go away," I urge.

"Is she hurt?" the angel asks. "Miss Stanley, you found her this way?"

"Yes, sir! I had to use the bathroom, and I happened to find her on my way. I think she fainted. Bella, are you okay?"

I try to talk without moving my head or body. "I will be. I just—need—a m-minute…" I don't want Jessica's or anybody's help. Leave me alone. I just want to die.

"All right, thank you, Miss Stanley. Go back with your class. I'll stay with her."

"But … sir? I still have to go to the bathroom."

Why is she calling the angel of death _sir_? This is such a ridiculous conversation, and the angel sounds kind of exasperated now. _Holy crow!_ That's not an angel. It's the lion. It's Mr. Masen!

"Miss Swan, you didn't participate in the fight, I assume. You're not injured?"

"No." I'm only dying, that's all.

Now it's so quiet, I think I'm alone again, but then I feel a blessed coolness on my forehead. I remember that his hands are cold, and I open my eyes and find him half-smiling at me. He's dabbing my head with a wet towel.

"Thank you," I manage to say.

"You're welcome. You look awful."

I know it's the truth, but still…. Lucy better try to 'splain herself.

"I all of a sudden wasn't feeling well. I almost passed out … or I was going to throw up … maybe both."

His expression turns back to serious and his next words surprise me. "Are you premenstrual?"

"What?!" How dare he! Just who does he think he is?

"Well, yesterday you almost passed out in the hall—"

"I tripped." That's what he thinks? That I'm hormonal!?

"There's such a thing as PMS-related anemia—"

Ugh. Just. Stop. "I'm not."

"What?"

"I'm not"—do I really have to say it?—"_premenstrual!_"

"Anemia—"

"No. It was the blood." He's not getting it, and I think in my stupor I'm somehow confirming that I'm anemic. "The blood from the fight," I try to explain.

"I see. The sight of the blood from the fighting made you feel ill." Now he's laughing at me again.

"And the scent." I have no idea why I volunteered that, but it's true.

"Can you sit up, Miss Swan?"

"Maybe." I try, but a dizzy spell overtakes me. Next thing I know, however, I'm being lifted quite ably into the air. Oh no! He can't spank me! I'll throw up! "Put me down!" In between the waves of nausea, I try my best to make him drop me, kicking and protesting. I've not been carried since I sprained my ankle when I was eight. I just want to die, can't he see that?

_Don't throw up, don't throw up, don't throw up…._

He walks with me out of the locker room and announces to the gym class, "I'm taking Miss Swan to the infirmary. She fainted."

Okay, he's trying to take care of me. I don't like it, but I quit fighting and turn my head into his chest, closing my eyes so that the motion doesn't further aggravate my stomach.

There is some dialogue about driving to the academic building, and Mr. Masen makes two other girls leave with us. He seats me on the passenger side of a kind of golf cart on steroids, while the other students climb in the back with the athletic equipment. I don't look at them, but rather keep my eyes closed. I will say that the cold, wet air feels good on my face, once the man puts the pedal to the floor, and I start to feel better.

"Mr. Masen?" comes a voice from over my left shoulder.

"You can ask questions once we meet with Dr. Cullen. You are in big trouble, and I suggest you keep your mouth shut until you're told otherwise."

Even though this isn't directed at me, I lower my head. His sternness is effective.

His driving is quite brusque too, and when he parks I almost fall out of the cart.

"Hold it right there," he commands. "I'll get you."

The slip was not because I still feel dizzy—it's just that I seem to perpetually fall out of vehicles. Nevertheless, he uses the opportunity to pick me up again, and I let him, wrapping my arms around his neck and holding on as we move inside.

"You two stay here and _don't_ move," I hear him say. I feel sorry for those girls, even if they were fighting. I feel sure that physical aggression warrants a yellow slip. With that thought, my breathing accelerates and my stomach flips for another reason.

Mr. Masen carries me down the hall to a room with beds and sets me on one.

"Lie down."

"I'm fine," I say, trying to stand up.

He pushes on me, and there is something in his voice that tells me I'd better give in on this one.

"You will stay here until I come back. I need to take Miss Newton and Miss York to the office. Now lie down."

I do so abruptly and silently wrench my neck in the process. It hurts and I _can't_ move for a minute. Not realizing that I've hurt myself, he seems satisfied that I'm going to obey and he exits. I think that when Mr. Masen puts you somewhere, you'd better stay there. And so I do, but as a minor act of rebellion I sit up carefully and lean my back against the wall, keeping my neck straight.

I make use of my time by trying to imagine what's happening to those poor girls.

A while later the school nurse comes in with two "patients" from the gymnasium. There's blood all over their clothes and one girl's got dried blood smeared on her mouth, thus my sickness returns without warning. The nurse, Ms. Townsend, has pity and sends me away with a cold compress, a free condom (huh?), and a ginger ale. I drink to make _her_ feel better and because she is kind enough to let me go. Once free, I figure I better stop by the class that I'm missing and get my homework assignment. After that, I shuffle to my locker for my backpack and the books that I'll need to take home.

Jake has texted me: "Good 2 see u this am. Are u free tonite?"

He had driven his bike to campus this morning to say a quick hello, before he headed off to school on the reservation. I was flattered that he'd thought enough of me to do that, but his presence (young man on campus!) caused a bit of a scene as students made their way to the auditorium for my father's presentation. So while I was happy to see him, I encouraged him to be on his way.

Tonight? Well, I need to go by the grocery store and make dinner, but it would be fun to see Jake. "Got to study," I type, "but maybe 8:30. Too late?" After today, I need to laugh, and Jake always takes my mind off things.

I'm hiding the phone in the zipper pocket of my bag, when I feel the hair on the back of my neck rise and a sudden stinging sensation on my backside. Shocked, my hand flies to the hurt as I turn around to face the responsible beast.

Mr. Masen is in my face and clearly furious. It takes a moment for my brain to register that an angry Mr. Masen behind me, and a throbbing pain in my _behind_, means that he smacked me. I can't believe he's had the audacity to touch me in this way! This cannot be allowed … even at St. Anne's. A younger girl looks our way, but then lowers her head and sneaks off.

"Did you just _spank_ me?" I ask in a hush, not a little furious myself.

I don't know what I expect from him, but what he says next throws me head first into an emotional spiral of dread and humiliation.

"If you were not feeling ill, I would take you over my knee right here and give you a real spanking. I guess it's lucky you're so easily nauseated." Then as an afterthought, he adds, "You're not supposed to have a phone in here."

I do know this, but _everybody_ at St. Anne's carries their phone. I found that out yesterday, and so I felt comfortable bringing mine in with me this morning. I know I'm guilty, however, and that shame seems to turn me into a spoiled toddler.

"I'm telling my dad," I warn, trying to look fearsome.

"Telling him what? That you can't do as you're told and you need a good spanking? Don't bother. I'll call him for you."

This is worrisome, and yet I try to hold my own. _Don't cry,_ I tell myself sharply.

"Are you feeling better?" Mr. Masen continues. "Because we can take care of that now."

"No, I don't feel well." This lie is all about self-preservation. It came from my lips without much forethought, but I think Mr. Masen is threatening to give me a spanking … and perhaps even out here in the hallway. That threat is enough to make me feel unwell.

"Follow me then. I want to talk to you." He practically turns on his heel and marches away, while I'm left to scurry after him. Like an idiot, I drop my backpack in my turmoil.

"Wait here," he tells me, indicating a chair in the lobby. The lovely Ms. Platt is trying not to look at me. She and Mr. Masen exchange words, before the secretary writes a short note and sends the two girls waiting beside me to the nurse's station.

I've never had to sit in one of _these_ chairs before, and I'm terrified. This is obviously the "bad-girl" chair. I don't believe it. It's my second day in my new school, and I'm already going to find out what it's like to get a yellow slip. Charlie's obviously signed the release form—this is clear from what Mr. Masen said about calling him—and I'm going to have to tell my dad what happened this evening. But I'm too old for a spanking, and this is totally unfair. Does Charlie not think I'm too old for a spanking? Will he spank me again then once he finds out what happened at school? This is not something I've had to worry about for a really long time. Is it even legal? That's it. After this, I will have to move back to Phoenix where school administrators don't hit their students. I certainly won't be able to stay here. I won't be able to look Mr. Masen in the eye again….

As the coming exile crosses my mind, the man himself opens his door again and asks Ms. Platt to join him. And then…

Holy crow, it's happening! He's spanking a student in there! While the other girl and Ms. Platt watch?! And whoever the victim is, she's wailing like a caged cat.

I think about where Mr. Masen hit me, and although it doesn't hurt anymore, I remember what it felt like, to have his hand on my bottom.

Why is this happening to me? Okay, okay. I was texting. Phones are prohibited. Maybe I can get away with a warning? I'm new after all. I'll tell him I didn't know and I'll play up the sick thing if I have to. But he said that I couldn't do as I was told and needed a spanking. What was he talking about? What didn't I do that I was told to do? I've known him for less than forty-eight hours….

The smacking stops for a moment and then starts up again. With every thwack, I feel a reaction in my body. A vibration very low in my abdomen. It feels like I'm swelling down there, and I can't tell if this is panic or anticipation.

Dr. Cullen comes out of his office and flips through some papers on Ms. Platt's filing cabinet. I don't want him to see me here and I try to make myself as small as possible in my seat. He doesn't seem to notice me or be bothered by the noises coming from behind the closed door, and after a minute he returns to his desk.

After they return from their meeting with the nurse, I sneak a glance at the girls sitting next to me. Miss York(?) is silently weeping, while the girl next to her is rubbing her arm and telling her it will be okay. These are the two that rode with us in the cart from the gym, but I don't recall their first names.

Finally Mr. Masen opens his door, pushes the two punished girls out and instructs them to visit the restrooms to wash up. The red-headed girl, who has a splint on her nose, is a blubbering mess and Ms. Platt's got an arm around her shoulders. The tall Native-American girl glares angrily at me and the other two students in the lobby.

"Miss Newton. Miss York," he beckons dangerously. The door closes behind them, but Ms. Platt stays out with me.

There is a longer preliminary than there had been during the first round, but other than that, it's a repeat of the first. I know my time is coming.

Sure enough, the door opens fifteen minutes later, the girls depart looking slightly worse than when they went in, and Mr. Masen asks Ms. Platt to send me in.

I'm surprised that I can stand, but I manage, and I can even take steps in the right direction. So far so good, until the toe of my shoe trips on a chair leg and I fall forward suddenly. Mr. Masen starts, but I catch myself before I get hurt. I lower myself ever so gracefully into the seat he points out and wonder how long I will be sitting.

He's not talking to me, but glancing through a file with my name on it. At least he seems more subdued now. There is a black leather paddle on the desk, inches from my school records; this must be what he used to spank the girls who came before me. Now I can't stand it any longer. It's fine if I'm here to be lectured or punished or whatever, but I want to know what I'm in for.

"Am I in trouble?" I ask.

"No. I want to go over your requirements while you're here. I won't keep you."

Really? All this angst for nothing? "You're not calling Char—I mean, my dad?"

"Not unless you want me to…"

I shake my head fiercely.

"You still look kind of pale. How are you getting home?"

"My truck is here."

"And you're okay to drive?"

"Yeah."

"Will your father be home when you get there?"

_Why do you ask?_

"No. Not until late. But I'll be fine."

"Are you usually alone after school?"

_So curious. Yes, I'm home alone after school, and no, I'm not menstruating, if that would be your next question._

"Yes."

Maybe I should have lied. I don't know if this Mr. Masen is safe. Scratch that: He most certainly is _not_ safe. Not the sort who goes breaking into houses, but not harmless either. The sad thing is that the thought of Mr. Masen climbing into my bedroom window right now is kind of a happy one.

"Uh, I wanted to talk to you about maybe adding an extracurricular activity or two to your week. Colleges like things like that."

"Oh." This is the reason for that temper tantrum by the lockers?

"Is there something—a hobby maybe—that you enjoy? St. Anne's offers a diverse number of clubs and activities."

_I mean, not really. Unless motocross is offered here. _"Mmmm… I like to read."

"No sports?"

"No!"

"Horseback riding too then?"

_Rather die._

"Swimming?"

_Cliff diving sounds cool._

"Choir?"

_Not even in the shower._

"Theater?"

_Ha!_ "I'm a horrible actress."

"Do you play an instrument?"

"Uh-uh."

"Oh, what about ballroom dancing?"

_Do I look like I want a broken leg?_

"I got it. What about self-defense?"

_Hmmm. _Now that might come in handy. It does seem that I've attracted the attention of a certain male who wants to spank me.

Mr. Masen reads his computer screen, his right hand on the mouse that is next to the paddle. "It's on Thursdays at four o'clock. You ought to give it a go this week. They won't care if you try it out first."

"Maybe. I don't want to hurt anybody though."

He finds this funny. "I'll make sure to warn the instructor, Sam—tell him you're coming."

"Okay. Is—is that all?"

"For now."

I stand up to go, but then my curiosity stops me. Perhaps having come so close to being paddled and then coming away unhurt makes me bold. "May I ask you a question?"

"Yes."

"What did you mean when you said that I can't do as I'm told?"

"Um… I meant that I'd told you to lie down in the sickroom and you weren't there when I came back for you."

_I bet you could _make_ me do as I'm told, Mr. Masen, with that black leather paddle of yours. _Holy crow, where did _that_ thought come from?

"Are you always so"—_anal retentive_—"detail-oriented?"

Pause. "Yes." Then he hesitates again. "I'm sorry for … laying into you like I did. It's been a hard day. I don't know why, but I feel overly protective of you. I guess because you're new. But if you tell your father or Dr. Cullen—"

"I won't tell anybody," I say briskly. I believe him, for some reason, about being over-protective of me. And … I trust him. For all the disapproval and displeasure he displays, there is a kindness, a humor, and a … charm there in his green eyes—the color of the forest.

A thank-you stumbles from his mouth.

I return the gratitude—his reward for being a gentleman. "Thank you for rescuing me today."

"You're welcome, Miss Swan."

I'm determined not to fall or look stupid again before I get out of here, and so I watch carefully as I step around the chair on my way toward the door. But this new confident, flirty Bella makes me risk again. "Mr. Masen?"

"Hm?"

"You were wrong. I _can_ do as I'm told. When it's in my best interest to do so." Then I remember to finish with the proper designation, "—sir."

* * *

It's actually not raining today and Jake gives me a ride to school on the back of his bike. If Charlie knew, he would blow a gasket, but he left for work before I woke up and he won't be home again until late. Riding a motorcycle in a kilt is a skill I've not yet mastered, and so I very slowly alight, not quite trusting myself not to trip or flash the entire student body as it moves toward its classes. I wave goodbye as Jake races off, ignore the stares from the other students, and make my way to my locker to change books out of my bag.

As I shrug off my coat, I notice a folded note at my feet that fell on the floor when I opened my locker. I pick it up and straighten the paper, holding my breath when I see who it's from:

_It would be in your best interest to do as you are told, Miss Swan._

_—EM_


End file.
